him. She’d obviously been casing his house. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know who had sent her. He wanted to move on with his day, because he had a boatload of physical therapy to get through before he returned to HEART. Five weeks recovering from a torn meniscus, and he was almost cleared to return to work.
He was counting the days, because the house was too quiet, the days too long, the nights even longer with nothing to occupy him.
“Kelley,” she added, then he knew, and a half dozen memories of his brother filled his mind.
“Josh’s widow,” she continued, as if he might be too dense to put it all together.
“I get it.” He released her vest, stepped back. She wasn’t anything like what he’d have expected. Josh had always gone for blonde, voluptuous. Fake. “What do you want?”
“To leave.” She glanced toward the dead-end street. He’d chosen the house because of the privacy and the park that butted up against the yard. Plenty of room to run, hike and bike.
“You looked me up for a reason.”
“I...need your help, but I can’t explain. There isn’t time.” Her watch beeped again, and she took off, sprinting into the street and heading toward the end of the road.
He should let her go. Josh had only ever been trouble. Even before they’d entered foster care, before they’d been adopted, before he’d stolen from the only two people who had ever loved them, Josh had been all about getting what he could however he could from whomever he could. Dallas had some regrets about their relationship, but not enough to make him want to connect with his widow.
So, yeah, he should let Carly Rose Kelley go, but he was at loose ends, and Christmas was coming. His parents did their best to get his mind off the season. For the past six years, they’d invited friends and family over to their place for a loud and loving Christmas exchange. Dallas always attended, and then he’d return home to his silent, empty house that should have been filled with the excited squeals of the twins, his wife, maybe another child or two.
Lila had wanted a big family.
He liked to pretend he’d have agreed to that. He wasn’t sure, though. He’d never thought he’d be that great of a husband or father. He hadn’t planned to be, either, but then he’d met her, and he’d fallen hard and fast. They’d married four months after they’d met, and she’d been pregnant three months later.
If they’d lived, the twins would be turning seven on Christmas Eve.
He shoved the thought and the memories away. He needed distractions this time of year. Carly was the perfect one.
He could still see her, slowing as she reached the end of the street, apparently less frantic now that she’d put some distance between them. There was another entrance to the park in that direction. Maybe she was heading there.
Whatever the case, he planned to follow. At his own pace, because even if he lost sight of her, he could find her again.
That was what he’d spent the past several years doing—finding people, helping them, bringing them home. Something moved in his periphery, and he swung around, saw a guy walking toward him, coming from the same direction Carly had, sauntering like he had nothing but time on his hands. Except he looked sweaty, his hair plastered to his head.
“Morning,” he said as he passed, without looking in Dallas’s direction. He also stayed near the center of the street, far enough from the houses to keep motion-detecting security lights from being triggered. And he seemed to be following the same path as Carly. Minus the trip to Dallas’s porch.
“Cold morning for a walk,” Dallas said, and the man stiffened.
“Yeah. It is.” He put on a little speed, increasing his pace just enough for it to be noticeable.
“You going anywhere interesting?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just thinking that if you’re following the lady, you might want to stop.”
“Mind your own business, buddy,” the guy growled.
“It’s my business when a woman is running alone and she’s being followed,” he responded.
“You want trouble?” The guy turned, his eyes blazing. The sun had finally drifted above the horizon, the gold-gray light glancing off mud-brown hair and dull blue eyes.
“I’m not going to walk away from it if it comes calling,” Dallas replied. Poking the pig. That was what his father called it. It was something Dallas always seemed compelled to do. Something that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.
This time was no different.
The guy moved fast, reaching under the hem of his jacket, the motion smooth and practiced. Dallas had seconds to react, to throw himself sideways, pull his Glock. And then the world was exploding into chaos—a woman screaming, a hundred memories filling his mind as he found his mark and fired his first shot.
She screamed.
She couldn’t stop herself.
And then she ran faster, racing away from the man with the gun, the one who’d been following her.
Racing away from Dallas. He was in danger because of her. She could try to deny it. She could tell herself all kinds of pretty lies, but if he’d been shot, it was because she’d dragged him into trouble. She glanced over her shoulder, stumbling as she reached the transition between pavement and park path.
Nothing in the street. No sign of Dallas. No guy with a gun. Lights had come on in a few houses, and she could hear sirens in the distance. Someone had called the police. She could stay and tell them what she’d seen. She could talk to them about the gemstones she was supposed to be cutting, the threats against Zane. She could put her faith and trust in fallible human beings and an overburdened criminal justice system.
Or she could keep going and leave Dallas to face the consequence of her decisions. She could let him talk to the police, explain what he’d seen, what she’d said.
And while he was doing that, she could be packing and leaving town.
But if he’d been shot...
She stopped, eyeing the empty street, the lit houses, the rising sun glinting off winter-bare trees. Nothing moved, and she took a step back the way she’d come, because she couldn’t just abandon Dallas. No matter how much she might want to.
She stopped in front of his house, scanning the yard, looking for signs that he’d been injured. She found what might have been a splotch of blood on the pavement, another drop of it a few inches away. But there was no one lying bleeding on the ground. There was nothing but the gold-gray light of dawn, the chilly winter breeze and the sound of screaming sirens.
She found more blood on the grass, and she followed the trail of it around Dallas’s house and across the field that separated his property from the park. The police would arrive soon, and she shouldn’t be there when they did.
